


Who Has Been Unhooking the Stars Without My Permission?

by transoberyn



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Other, Self Harm, Space Pirates, Suicidal Thoughts, because space pirate aus are THE BEST, enjolras is not amused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:26:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transoberyn/pseuds/transoberyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has been dragged onto a trip around the galaxy by his very rich but not very loving parents. Enjolras is the captain of the Patria, the most famous pirate ship in the known universe. The Patria only targets extremely rich people, especially if they name their ships after people from the French monarchy. Grantaire's parents' ship is named the Louis XVII. You do the math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Grantaire Needs A Hug, But All He Gets Is Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> I really like Space Pirate aus. space + pirates! What's not to love? If you see any errors, please tell me. I hope to update regularly.

Grantaire sighed as he looked out the window of his bedroom. The surface of planet R180 was a murky grey in the distance; not anything worth painting. He’d gotten kind of sick of drawing planets from above anyways. But his parents wouldn’t let him go planetside since that almost-diplomatic-incident he’d caused while talking to the daughter of the ambassador to Earth from planet 61A4. How was he to know that drinking heavily while talking to someone indicated romantic interest in their culture? Besides, he’d learned his lesson to not initiate any form of communication with anyone he hadn’t studied the culture of thoroughly.

****

Why his parents had dragged him on this trip in the first place, he had no idea. The only form of interaction he’d had with them the entire trip was them lecturing him on proper social behavior with various other species, and now that he was no longer allowed off the ship that wasn’t an issue anyway!

****

His parents were currently in a shuttle going down to the planet’s surface. Apparently the inhabitants of planet R180 were interested in making an alliance with the Intergalactic Union. So while Grantaire’s parents were making nice with the odd cuttlefish-dragon-human splice people, he was stuck, alone, in the posh and fashion-forward prison that was his parent’s ship. It had, much to Grantaire’s chagrin, been unironically named the Louis XVII. Apparently, being raised in the Gamma sector of Earth Colony 4 did not dissuade Grantaire’s parents from embracing their French royalist heritage with open arms.

****

At the moment, Grantaire was seriously considering flinging himself out of the airlock in order to escape the endless drudgery that was his life. He scratched his wrist unthinkingly, wincing at the feeling of a scab breaking off. Swearing as he noticed a dark spot appearing on his dark green hoodie, Grantaire pushed himself quickly off of his completely unnecessary window seat and hurried to the kitchen to grab an ice cube. He muttered an increasingly creative litany of swear words, he shrugged quickly out of his sweatshirt and began frantically rubbing an ice cube on the already sizeable stain. After about 5 minutes, the spot was barely noticeable. Grantaire sighed in relief, and went to go rinse off his wrist in the sink.

****

As he was turning on the faucet, Grantaire looked out the window and did a double-take. A red and black ship, obviously equipped with heavy armor and weapons, had silently glided up next to the Louis XVII. Squinting at it suspiciously through the triple layer of glass, Grantaire managed to make out the word _Patria_ painted on the side of the ship in delicate silver calligraphy. He went pale. Patria was the most famous pirate ship in the entire known universe. It was known for two things: Its crew’s impeccable strategy, and the fact that they never left a single person alive. Ever. Well, that and the fact that their captain was supposedly a descendant of the Greek god Apollo. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how anyone knew that, seeing as everyone who’d seen them in person was dead. But whatever.

****

Just as Grantaire was praying to a god that he hadn’t believed in for about 7 years, the ship’s rarely used intercom/radio crackled to life.

****

_This is the Patria, contacting the Louis XVII._ (the last part was spoken with poorly concealed contempt.) _Prepare to be boarded._

****

Not two seconds after the message ended, Grantaire heard the sound of the docking station in the kitchen attaching to another ship. He took a shaky breath and quickly crouched behind the counter as he watched the doors slide open. A man in a red jacket with golden hair and the jawline of a model stepped over the threshold and into the kitchen. Behind him were a man with violently curly brown hair and a wicked grin, and a person of indeterminate gender with a very long magenta braid flipped across their shoulder. All three were armed with the latest model of laser gun and at least three holographic knives. Grantaire felt sick.

****

“We know that there’s at least one person in here. Our cameras saw you in the window. Come out now, or we will find you; I assure you that you won’t enjoy what happens when we find you,” Adonis said, smiling threateningly.

****

Grantaire sighed heavily, standing up from where he had been crouched on the floor. He wrapped his arms securely around his midsection, although that did nothing to hide the cigarette burns that littered his upper arms. It was just his luck to have the ship invaded by pirates just as he took off his hoodie for the first time in days, revealing a somewhat grungy black tank top and a myriad of self-inflicted cuts and burns.

****

There was a sharp intake of breath from soft grunge, and a muttered “Shit.” from Shirley Temple.

****

Antinous regarded Grantaire with a critical eye.

****

“You don’t look like you could afford this ship,” he said, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

****

“You’re right, I couldn’t afford this ship,” Grantaire replied, with only a slight tremor to his voice.

****

“Did you steal it?” was the immediate reply, made with a raised eyebrow and a skeptical once over of Grantaire’s, admittedly, not athletic physique.

****

“Nope. It’s my parents’,” Grantaire said, clenching his fingers into his ribcage.

****

“Figured. Now, are you going to tell us where the majority of your parents’ wealth is stored, or am I going to have to make you talk?” Orestes said, fingering the sheath of one of his holographic blades.

****

“Oh, Apollo, I could never keep anything from you,” Grantaire replied, smirking, a complete oxymoron in comparison to his body language.  

****

Shirley Temple snickered, and turned it quickly into a cough when Alexander turned on him with a glare.

“My name is Enjolras. Call me Apollo again and I’ll gut you; Do I make myself clear?” Enjolras growled, advancing on Grantaire with one hand on the hilt of a knife.

****

Grantaire made a sort of whimpering noise, mostly due to the fact that he felt himself developing a very badly timed erection. Recovering himself quickly, he pasted the smirk back on.

****

“Of course, _mon ange_. The ‘bank vault’ is in my parents’ bedroom. I can show you the way, if you’d like,” Grantaire responded, spreading his arms magnanimously. This was met with another muttered curse word from Shirley Temple, and a wince from soft grunge. Grantaire quickly realised his mistake and folded back in on himself. Hunching his shoulders, he walked quickly to the entrance to the hallway, pausing a moment to make sure that the others were following him.

****

Grantaire led the pirates efficiently through the lounge and into the section designated as living quarters. Acting mockingly like a tour guide, he monologued throughout the entire journey. “Please keep to the designated walkway, folks! The area you are now walking in is airtight, and if you stray off the path the fumes of pretentiously ostentatious wealth are strong enough to knock you out and turn you into a white politician! Now, on your left you’ll see a doorway with the letter R sloppily scrawled on it. You will most definitely not find any money in there, just art supplies and dirty laundry. To your right you will see a door that has been painted an obnoxious shade of royal purple. This is our next destination, as it contains this sector’s largest supply of ridiculously expensive perfume, cologne, and three-piece suits that are never worn. The mirror above the dresser that was carved by child slaves in impoverished planets in the Pollux sector of the galaxy was created with angel tears, and is allegedly a family heirloom from one of my ancestors who was in the royal court of the asshole that this ship is named after. Behind it, however, is all of the material wealth that my family currently has withdrawn from one of our many bank accounts, as well as the usernames and passwords to all of those bank accounts. The combination for the safe is the date of my late sister’s birth, as she was far superior to the good-for-nothing son that was born approximately 10 years before she,” he finished, removing the mirror from the wall and tapping in the combination. The safe swung open to reveal a small stack of hundred-credit bills and several pieces of paper.

****

Enjolras motioned Shirley Temple forward. He sidled up cautiously next to Grantaire, flashing him an apologetic smile as he swiped the money and the pieces of paper into a black messenger bag.

****

“Is that all?” Enjolras asked, looking at Grantaire with some amount of disdain and a large amount of suspicion.

****

“As far as I’m aware, yes. You could probably take that mirror and sell it for a small fortune, but that would ruin my lifelong dream of breaking it and using one of the shards to melodramatically slit my wrists,” Grantaire quipped.

****

“Then I’ll most definitely take it. Jehan, could you carry the mirror?” Enjolras said, unshaken by the image.

****

Soft grunge, a.k.a. Jehan, skipped delicately forward and grasped the mirror a bit above where Grantaire was still holding it.

****

“May I?” they asked, a slightly accented lilt to their voice.

****

“Certainly. Careful, it’s a bit heavy,” Grantaire replied, gradually relinquishing his hold on the frame so that they could get used to the weight.

****

Jehan smiled shyly at him, then hefted the mirror with no effort at all underneath one of their arms.

****

Grantaire blinked, somewhat startled. Then he shrugged and turned to Enjolras.

****

“So, is this the part where you kill me?” he asked nonchalantly. “Because that’s totally okay. Or, like, I could take care of it for you and leave my parents wondering how exactly I managed to make all of their money disappear into the ether without leaving the ship before killing myself.”

****

“No!” Shirley Temple interjected, just as Enjolras opened his mouth, probably about to ask Grantaire if he wanted his eyes bandaged or something equally ridiculous and melodramatic. “We should take him with us!”

****

“What?!” Enjolras asked, looking completely bewildered.

****

“Feuilly wants an artist friend, right? They were just complaining about how no one on the ship had any artistic ability except for Jehan, and xe’s only interested in poetry! And this dude seems pretty cool, and he said that he has art supplies! So, we should totally take him with us!” Shirley Temple explained, waving his hands wildly and almost whacking Grantaire in the face several times.

****

“Courfeyrac, for the love of-” Enjolras cut himself off, burying his head in his hands.

****

“Please?” Jehan asked, xyr eyes big.

****

“Ugh, fine. Courfeyrac, accompany our acquaintance to his room so he can pack some things. Jehan, we’re going back to the ship,” Enjolras relented, unable to resist both of his crewmembers’ doe eyes.

****

“Awesome!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, and quickly steered Grantaire out of the room via an arm around his shoulders. Once inside Grantaire’s room, Grantaire shrugged Courfeyrac’s arm off of his shoulders and leveled a wary look at him.

****

“Go on then, pack some shit! I’m kind of shocked that Enjolras even thought of that in the first place. He’s kind of bad at people. But you could probably tell that anyway.  Hey, what’s your name?” Courfeyrac paused in his chatter to look inquisitively at Grantaire.

****

“My name is Grantaire, but my friends call me R. At least, they would if I had any,” Grantaire replied with a self-deprecating smile as he shoved various items of clothing into a paint-splattered backpack.

****

Courfeyrac went silent for a moment, then regained his previous enthusiasm.

****

“Okay R! So, before you come on the ship, you have to make sure that you call Jehan by the right pronouns. Otherwise, xyr boyfriend will have a bone to pick with you. And by that, I mean that he’ll slam you into the floor! Repeatedly! It happened once with this asshole of an ambassador, it was hilarious! Oh, are you done packing? Awesome! Let’s go!” Courfeyrac wrapped his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders again. “I don’t quite remember how we got here, so lead on!”

**  
**With a put-upon sigh, Grantaire guided Courfeyrac back to the kitchen. He grabbed his hoodie off of the counter and shrugged it on. With one last look back at the inside of the ship, he stepped into the space between the two ships and past that into the Patria. Courfeyrac pressed the button to seal the entrance, and it hissed shut behind them. Grantaire was now officially technically a hostage. Yippee.


	2. In Which Grantaire Paints and Courfeyrac is a Big Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is introduced to the crew, Courfeyrac is a wimp about carrying heavy things, Grantaire paints, Enjolras unknowingly pines, and Feuilly plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please inform me of any typos you spot! Thanks!

Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac as soon as the doors were closed.

****

“Can you not tell everyone about… the... thing?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to one of his arms.

****

“Totally, dude. As long as Enjolras hasn’t been blabbing the entire time you were packing, no one has to know. Just… if you feel like talking to someone, my door is always unlocked. Except for at night. Don’t come into my bedroom at night. Unless Combeferre is still in places other than my bedroom. Then it’s probably fine. Knock first, though,” Courfeyrac said, his smile going from sheepish to wicked in an alarmingly fast manner.

****

“Okay then. I’ll be sure to… keep that in mind,” Grantaire replied, blushing slightly.

****

“Now then, let’s introduce you to everyone! This way! We mostly congregate in the kitchen/family room-ish area because it has the most windows. And space is cool. Plus, it also is the most heavily armored place in the entire ship other than the cockpit. I’ve never quite gotten over that word. It sounds like a shady strip club!”

****

“Do I want to know?” A girl with dark hair and flawless eyeliner regarded Courfeyrac with mild amusement.

****

“No need to worry, Ép! I was just explaining to our new crewmember how beautiful the word cockpit is,” Courfeyrac responded, grinning manically. “Grantaire, this is our resident covert operations expert, Éponine! Éponine, this is Grantaire, Feuilly’s new artist buddy!”

****

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled,” Éponine said dryly. “Possibly nice to meet you. I’ll reserve my judgement until you prove yourself trustworthy.”

****

“I have no such luxury,” Grantaire replied, smiling wryly. “If you don’t like me, you probably have the option of killing me. If I don’t like you, tough shit.”

****

“I think that I’ll end up liking you after all,” Éponine said, nodding slightly. “Well, it’s been nice, but our fearless leader needs me to plan a robbery.”

****

With that, she continued down the hallway in the same direction she’d been going, flapping a hand dismissively over her shoulder when Courfeyrac shouted after her,

****

“I’d better not have to distract the closeted security guard again!”

****

Grantaire snorted into his hand at the image.

****

“It wasn’t funny! The guy was so _gross_ ,” Courfeyrac protested, shuddering at the memory.

****

Just then, they reached the aforementioned kitchen/family room-ish area. Jehan was perched on the lap of a very muscular man about twice xyr size, snarling at a TV screen and hammering on a video game controller. Enjolras and a freakishly attractive man wearing hipster glasses and a plaid dress shirt were hunched over what looked like a blueprint of a museum that was spread out on the kitchen table.

****

A man with ginger-brown hair whose face was liberally covered in freckles was blushing furiously as the blonde woman beside him swore furiously at the TV screen, also holding a video game controller. Two men, one bald with a cast on his leg, the other with light brown hair and a large pile of tissues accumulating on the floor at his feet were the other two participants in the video game playing. A woman with dark, curly hair and a smattering of freckles across her tanned nose sitting between the two men was whispering something in the ear of the one with the light brown hair, who was trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably.

****

A boy with shaggy blond hair who looked to be about 12 was looking over the shoulder of a person with dark ginger hair in a ponytail who was smearing his thumb across a sketchbook page with one hand and delicately holding a piece of charcoal in the other.

****

At the sound of someone entering the room, Enjolras and Male Model #2 looked up from their battle plans.

****

“Hello again,” Enjolras paused as he tried to think of Grantaire’s name.

****

“Grantaire. Don’t worry, you didn’t ask for my name in the first place. Even if you did, I’m hardly worth anyone remembering my name, let alone a god,” Grantaire gestured to Enjolras with mocking reverence.

****

“Calling me a god is hardly better than calling me Apollo,” Enjolras sighed, frowning at Grantaire disapprovingly.

****

“Now, now, Enjy. Let’s not have you and R sniping at each other before he’s even met the entire crew!” Courfeyrac chastised. “Jehan, could you pause in slaughtering… Are those teletubbies? Oh my god. Okay, could you pause the game so that everyone can meet R?”

****

“One… second…,” Jehan gritted out between clenched teeth as he sliced the heads off of several teletubbies with a katana. “Okay, there we go.” Jehan slammed the Start button on his controller. All four people with controllers relaxed instantly.

****

“Everyone, this is Grantaire. He can alternately be called R, which I think is a pretty spectacular pun if I do say so myself. We kidnapped him instead of killing him because he seemed pretty chill, and he’s an artist, so Feuilly can have an artist buddy! It’s really a win/win situation! Plus, there’s an empty room in between my room and Feuilly’s room, so it’s perfect! Can everyone, starting with Ferre, go around the room and introduce themselves?” Courfeyrac pointed at Male Model #2, who stood up.

****

“I’m Combeferre. I’m in charge of battle tactics and occasionally piloting the ship when autopilot doesn’t work.”

****

The man sitting beneath Jehan waved. “I’m Bahorel. I’m in charge of beating people up.” Jehan giggled and kissed him on the nose. Xe did jazz hands, and despite Grantaire already knowing xyr name said,

****

“I’m Jehan, and you’re watching Jackass. Also, I’m mostly in charge of hacking.”

****

Brown haired tissue guy, after he was done laughing riotously at Jehan, coughed and introduced himself.

****

“I’m Joly, and I’m in charge of making sure that nobody dies of the plague or injuries.”

****

Next to him, short, dark, and freckly smiled brightly and introduced herself.

****

“I’m Musichetta, and I’m in charge of making sure that nobody has a mental breakdown. Also, occasionally beating the shit out of people.”

****

Bald cast guy waved with an arm that had several large scars on it.

****

“Hi! I’m Bossuet, and I’m in charge of watching the ship while everyone else is on a mission, because the last time I went on a mission I tripped, fell off a balcony, and landed on the leader of the organisation we were trying to steal information from.”

****

As Grantaire was stifling laughter, Blondie spoke up.

****

“I’m Cosette, and I’m in charge of interrogation and assassination,” she chirped, smiling sweetly. To her right, Freckles was snapped out of staring at her adoringly when she tapped him lightly on the leg. Stammering and blushing, he remembered that he was supposed to be introducing himself.

****

“Oh! I’m M-marius, and I’m in charge of translation!”

****

Cosette smiled and kissed him on the cheek as Feuilly finally looked up from their sketchbook.

****

“I assume that you’ve already heard my name, but I guess I’ll say it anyway. I’m Feuilly, and I’m in charge of ship repair, occasionally piloting the ship, and costume makeup for covert operations.”

****

The blond kid next to them smiled impishly.

****

“I’m Gavroche, and I’m in charge of pickpocketing and beating up people who misgender Feuilly.”

****

Feuilly sighed and buried their head in their hands, then cursed when they realised that they had gotten charcoal smeared on their face.

****

After a moment of awkward silence, Courfeyrac finally spoke up.

****

“And, of course, there is our esteemed and fearless leader, Enjolras. Now that you’ve been introduced to everyone, let’s get you settled into your room! Come on Grantaire, we’re gonna be neighbors!” he said, grinning excitedly.

****

“Does that mean I should call you Mr. Rogers?” Grantaire asked as they headed toward the living quarters, smiling despite himself.

****

“Oh my god, you know who Mr. Rogers is?!” Courfeyrac borderline squealed. “I thought I was the only one in the entire universe left who had grown up watching that show!”

****

Courfeyrac held up a fist to Grantaire to bump, not noticing the way Grantaire flinched away from it. “Come on, don’t leave me hangin’ bro!”

****

Grantaire gently touched his fist to Courfeyrac’s, then shoved both of his hands into his hoodie pockets. Courfeyrac stopped by the only door in the hallway that didn’t have some kind of decoration, sign, or nameplate on it.

****

“This is your room! Here’s the key; feel free to decorate the room and the door as much as you want! Just don’t light anything on fire or smash any holes in the wall, and you should be just fine,” Courfeyrac said, handing him a keycard. “This key also works for just about every door in the ship, so make sure you don’t lose it! Otherwise, you’ll probably be screwed.” Grantaire eyed the keycard suspiciously for a few seconds, shrugged, and slid it into a slot in the door set into a metal plate. There was an audible clicking noise, and the door slid into the wall.

****

Grantaire’s room was painted off-white. It was medium sized, with a large window on the far wall and a twin-sized bed with the headboard to the left of that. There was a door on the right wall, presumably leading to a bathroom. The floor was the same dark brown hardwood that had been in the hallway. There was a rectangular column-lamp-thing in the corner next to the window that had flickered on as the door opened. A dresser that matched the floor was squished in between the foot of the bed and the wall that the door was on.

****

“So?” Courfeyrac asked, smiling at Grantaire. “How do you like it?”

****

“I’m gonna need a lot more paint,” he replied, staring at the off-white walls in despair.

****

“We can do that. There’s a replicator in the kitchen, if you’d like to get started right away,” Courfeyrac suggested.

****

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, his face stuck in its mildly horrified expression.

****

“Do you want me to go get the paints while you put your stuff in your dresser? If you tell me what brand and colors to get, I can bring them to you. I’ll get some sheets for the bed while I’m at it, as well as plastic sheeting to protect the floors and brushes meant for painting walls and not canvases,” Courfeyrac offered, pulling a pad of post-it notes and a pencil out of seemingly nowhere.

****

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire said, then rattled off a list of brands, color names, brush types, and other such information as Courfeyrac scribbled them down with frightening efficiency. By the time he was done, Courfeyrac had used up more than 7 post-it notes, each one with almost indecipherably tiny handwriting covering it.

****

“Okay! You unpack and put away, I’ll be right back with a fuckload of art supplies! It’s a good thing that you don’t have many clothes, because you’re going to need a lot of storage space for all this stuff,” Courfeyrac said, and embarked off towards the kitchen.

****

Grantaire plopped down on the bed, alone for the first time since he’d watched the port doors slide open. He wasn’t used to much social interaction, seeing as his parents had kept him marooned away from civilisation because they were too ashamed of him. He sighed and flopped backward, exhausted from the most physical activity he’d had since that one time a month ago when he had decided to try doing laps around the kitchen. That had only ended in a broken vase, a lecture from his mother, and a stinging slap to the face from his father.

****

Grunting, Grantaire finally heaved himself off the bed and began to haphazardly yank clothes out of his backpack, throwing them carelessly onto the bed. He sorted them into categories, then shoved them, unfolded, into various dresser drawers in a surprisingly organised fashion. Finally, he gently extracted his sketchbook, colored pencils, and other various art supplies from the bottom of the bag and placed them on top of the dresser. He then collapsed back onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling until Courf came back, staggering under the weight of the three canvas bags he held, which were stuffed full with all of the things that Grantaire had asked for. He dropped them unceremoniously to the floor, and collapsed on the bed next to Grantaire.

****

“Jesus Christ on a bike, those things were heavy! The next time someone says that artists are delicate and fragile souls with equally delicate and fragile bodies I will laugh at them! Laugh! Because there is no way that someone with a delicate and fragile body could have carried those, let me tell you,” Courfeyrac whined.

****

“Yeah, yeah. Do you think you can help me move all the furniture to the center of the room, or are you too delicate and fragile to do that?” Grantaire asked, grinning when Courfeyrac looked at him indignantly.

****

“Fine, I’ll help you. But don’t expect me to help you with painting! I helped paint Jehan’s room the last time xe wanted to change the color, and my arms hurt for the next 3 days! NEVER AGAIN,” Courfeyrac shouted dramatically, clutching his right arm to his chest protectively.

****

Working together, Grantaire and Courfeyrac moved the bed to the center of the room and the dresser to the foot of the bed. They then draped the furniture and the floor in clear plastic sheeting. When that was done with, Courfeyrac exited the premises quickly, muttering something about arm massages. Grantaire laid out all of his paints on the bed and did a rough sketch of what he wanted to paint on the wall. He decided on a mural of the tree that was in the backyard of his house that he used to climb out of his window at night and go to concerts back in his rebellious teenager stage.

****

After standing and looking at the wall with the rough outline of the tree for a minute, Grantaire burst into action. He quickly started mixing paints to acquire just the right shade of dark blue for the sky, as well as the dark green for the lawn and trees in the background. Those were painted in carefully and quickly, and the stars painted onto the sky with painstaking precision. The tree was a massive, old oak tree, present in pictures of his family’s mansion since cameras were first invented. It had been there even before the house had been built, and no one in Grantaire’s family knew quite how old it was (or cared, for that matter). It had been the subject of many art projects that Grantaire had done in school, but he had never had such a large space to paint it on before.

****

He took to the work with a passion, carefully detailing in each ridge of bark. The leaves would be painted in tomorrow, when the rest of the painting was at least somewhat dry. When Grantaire was finally done with the details in the last branch of the tree, he finally looked at his watch. R would have done a spit take had he been drinking something. 19:00?! He shook his head to clear it, and walked to the bathroom to wash his hands. Grantaire squinted at his reflection in the mirror as he did so, noting the smear of light yellow paint that had somehow made its way onto his forehead. He grabbed a tissue, dampened it, and did his best to rub the streak off of his face before throwing it away and heading down to the kitchen to see about getting some kind of food.

****

When he got to the kitchen, Grantaire saw the four who had been playing video games earlier, with the exception of Jehan, still at it. Jehan had been replaced with Courfeyrac, who was swearing just as much as Cosette was. Jehan was perched on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, delicately picking at a salad as Bahorel tore at a hamburger next to xem.

****

“Hi, R!” xe said cheerfully. “Feel free to help yourself to some food from the replicator!”

****

Grantaire smiled weakly in response and walked over to the replicator. He flipped through the pages of various food items, wrinkling his nose at some of the items.

****

“Brussel sprouts? What the fuck?”

****

“Enjolras is an old man,” Bahorel explained, chuckling at Grantaire’s disgusted expression. “If you’re having trouble deciding what to eat, I would highly recommend the quesadillas on page 4. Courfeyrac coded them to match his mother’s cooking, and sweet baby Jesus are they good.”

****

Grantaire turned to the page, shrugged, and clicked on it.

****

“I’d never really thought of pirates as having mothers before, but I suppose you would have to,” he said, waiting for the replicator to finish creating his meal.

****

Jehan giggled at the term ‘pirate.’

****

“When people call us pirates I have a hard time not imagining Enjolras wearing a fancy ruffled red coat, a cravat, and a floppy hat, ordering someone to walk the plank,” xe laughed.

****

Grantaire snorted at the image, pulling his plate out of the replicator.

****

“Now that’s something I’d like to see,” he said, sitting down across from Jehan. A few minutes later, Bahorel was hit in the side of the head with a paper airplane. Unfolding it revealed a doodle of Enjolras brandishing a sword in the outfit that Jehan had described, forcing a man in a wig who looked suspiciously like Courfeyrac to walk the plank on an old-fashioned wooden sea-ship. Jehan cackled and gave a thumbs up to Feuilly, who was grinning at them from the same chair they’d been in that morning.

****

Grantaire had been distracted from his food by talking to Bahorel and Jehan, which was partly intentional because he wanted to let it cool. He finally remembered it, and took a bite out of the quesadilla, which was promptly punctuated by an obscene moan. All heads in the room whipped to look at him, including Enjolras who had previously been reading a book in the armchair next to Feuilly. Enjolras went bright red and quickly looked back down at his book when he saw who had made the noise. Bahorel laughed.

****

“I told you it was good, didn’t I?” he said, grinning as he watched Grantaire close his eyes in bliss.

****

“I’m so glad I got kidnapped,” Grantaire groaned around his next bite of quesadilla.

****

Feuilly, having noticed Enjolras’s reaction to Grantaire’s response to his food, smirked at him knowingly.

****

“Got a crush on our newest recruit, eh?”

****

“Shut up, no I don’t,” Enjolras snapped, blushing even more.

****

“It’s perfectly normal to have romantic interest in people, Enj,” Feuilly soothed, patting him on the back of his hand.

****

“Be _quiet_ , someone might hear you,” Enjolras hissed, looking around the room suspiciously.

****

Feuilly just smiled, and turned back to their sketchbook. They were already devising a plan to get Enjolras to realise and accept that he had a romantic interest in Grantaire. Enjolras was really a good person at heart, but he almost never let anyone get close to him unless he was practically forced to. Because of this unfortunate attribute, all of the people that Enjolras had let get close to him always encouraged him (in one way or another) to embrace his feelings whenever he gave even the slightest hint that he might like someone. Combeferre had quiet talks with Enjolras about the person and Courfeyrac engaged in not-so-subtle subterfuge, but surprisingly, the most devious of Enjolras’s three close friends was Feuilly.

****

They knew that the one emotion that ran the strongest in Enjolras was anger, so they had to find a way to get Enjolras to channel his anger in a way that made him realise that he was romantically interested in Grantaire. They decided to enlist both Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s help, because this was an operation that needed more than one person in on it.

 **  
**Feuilly smirked to themself. Enjolras wasn’t going to know what hit him.


	3. Small Voice, Small Words, Small Baby Jehan. Thank You.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly and Courfeyrac combine forces, Jehan has a bad day, and Grantaire curses the existence of French flag underwear.

Grantaire stumbled down the hall to the kitchen after about 3 hours of sleep. He’d stayed up most of the night before, determined to finish the painting in as little time as possible. All he had to do now was put on paint sealant, and his work would be done.

****

“Good morning, Grantaire!” Musichetta greeted when he finally made it to his destination. Grantaire grunted in response, trying to seem at least vaguely friendly while squinting blearily at her and wincing at the brightness of the lights. “Would you like some coffee?”

****

He nodded emphatically, then winced, holding his head.

****

“Is there any chance that the replicator has bacon sandwiches as an option?” he asked, crossing his fingers.

****

“You’re in luck! Courfeyrac came up with a code for that the last time we had a full ship party. He was worshipped like a god for days afterward,” Musichetta replied. “It’s on page 5 of the catalogue.”

****

Grantaire breathed out a sigh of relief and staggered over to the replicator. Feuilly hummed cheerfully from their position on a kitchen chair, sketching what appeared to be a picture of an extremely detailed Polish flag. As Grantaire was tapping his foot and waiting for his food, Enjolras walked into the room looking murderous. Grantaire was glad he wasn’t eating/drinking anything at the time, because Enjolras wasn’t wearing anything except for a pair of briefs colored like the French flag.

****

“I am going to murder Courfeyrac,” he said through gritted teeth, shooting daggers at Musichetta, who was laughing hysterically by that point. “Doesn’t this ever get old? It has happened three times in the last month. THREE TIMES.”

****

Grantaire was snapped out of his dumbfoundedness by the sound of the replicator dinging. Enjolras’s head snapped around to look at him, apparently not having noticed Grantaire standing there before. Enjolras rapidly became even more flushed than he had been in the first place, although at this point it was more out of embarrassment than soul crushing rage.

****

Grantaire hurriedly collected his sandwich and his coffee, and practically ran down the hall and into his room. In the kitchen, Enjolras looked mildly offended.

****

“I can’t look that bad, can I?” he said, bewildered. Musichetta just shook her head at him, still laughing.

****

Feuilly smirked to themself. Stage 1, complete.

****

The next to enter the kitchen was Bahorel. He put in two orders from the catalogue, and began making a pot of tea with the water that Musichetta already had boiling on the stove.

****

“Is it one of those days?” Enjolras asked, flickering his eyes between Jehan’s room and Bahorel.

****

“Yeah. You know the drill, right? Speaking of which, who should be the one to inform Grantaire about Jehan’s… condition?” Bahorel said, his brow furrowing.

****

“Enjolras will do it,” Feuilly said, smirking at Enjolras as they ordered a waffle on the replicator. “He’s the leader, after all.”

****

“Fine. But you have to either lend me some of your clothes or help me get the whereabouts of my clothes out of Courfeyrac first,” Enjolras conceded, crossing his arms.

****

“Oh, I know where they are. Try the storage area at the end of the hall. You should really consider getting more outfits; it would make it more difficult to steal all of your clothes in one go,” Feuilly advised.

****

“How did you know where they were?” Enjolras asked, squinting at Feuilly suspiciously. “Were you involved in this?”

****

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Feuilly responded, twirling their fork thoughtfully.

****

“You guys are the worst friends _ever_ ,” Enjolras said, and stomped down the hall to retrieve his clothes. Once he was out of the room, Musichetta squinted at Feuilly suspiciously.

****

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?” she said, not so much a question as a statement.

****

“Yup,” Feuilly replied, grinning mischieviously.

****

“Just make sure not to piss off Enjolras too much, yeah? He’s got enough to deal with on his own,” Musichetta requested.

****

Feuilly nodded. “Don’t worry, I know when to stop.”

****

                                                                                                -------------------

****

Grantaire rushed into his room and slammed the door behind him. Well, as much as you can slam a sliding door, anyway. He flopped down on the bed and began ravenously tearing into his sandwich, internally cursing all of the pairs of French flag briefs in the universe. After he was finished eating the sandwich, Grantaire got up and spiked his coffee with the leftover vodka from last night. Just as he was taking a huge gulp from the mug and grimacing at the taste, there was a hesitant knock on the door.

****

“It’s unlocked,” he called, praying that whoever it was planned on making their visit brief.

****

The door slid open to reveal Enjolras, now fully clothed, and looking extremely uncomfortable with the situation.

****

“Ah, Ange! What brings you here?” Grantaire greeted, mentally cursing whatever deity had decided to make his life difficult.

****

“I have come to… inform you of a few rules of etiquette we have on board for certain… circumstances,” he responded, shifting from foot to foot. “May I come in?”

****

“Certainly,” Grantaire replied, ushering him in while screaming internally. Enjolras stood in the center of the room awkwardly while Grantaire sat in his original spot on the bed.

****

“So, first of all, I should inform you that Jean Prouvaire, whom you have befriended in a shockingly small period of time, suffers from a severe case of depression. Xe manages it well most of the time with medication, but sometimes xe just has bad days. Now, on these bad days, there is one thing that is very important to remember: Do not make loud noises for any reason. If xe emerges from xyr room, speak in hushed tones, but if xe doesn’t then indoor speaking voices should be fine. Other than that, just follow basic rules of etiquette such as not getting into fist fights, and you should be fine. Do you have any questions?” Enjolras finished, looking at Grantaire expectantly.

****

“Nope. I’ll probably just stay in my room most of the day anyway. I wouldn’t be the best person to be around while having a bad day with your depression; that’s for sure,” Grantaire replied, smiling wryly. “Thanks for letting me know, though. I sure wish my parents would have had a list like that. Then again, the top thing on the list would have been ‘Don’t Talk to Grantaire.’”

****

Enjolras remained motionless for a second, not sure how to respond. “That was a joke, Enjo. You’re allowed to laugh, or tell me that that wasn’t funny at all,” Grantaire said, smiling slightly.

****

“Yeah. Right. Okay,” Enjolras choked out, laughing weakly. “Sorry, I’m not the best at conversing with people. It’s not really a necessary skill for a pirate; all you have to be able to do speaking-wise is tell people to tell me where their money is or I’ll rearrange their organs with my holo-knife.”

****

“I have the exact opposite of that problem. Once I start speaking, it never stops unless forced to. I take the phrase. ‘word vomit’ to a whole new extreme,” Grantaire reassured him, somewhat shocked that Enjolras was staying in the room longer than necessary to hold a conversation with him.

****

“I’m only good at talking when I’m giving speeches. It’s pretty much the only reason why I’m still the leader of this crew; otherwise Courfeyrac would have charmed me out of the position ages ago,” Enjolras said.

****

“Now Apollo, I’m sure that’s not true. You’re the only one in this group with the whole ‘leader’ vibe going on. If Courfeyrac were in charge of the ship, you’d probably be attacking military ships just because they have generals on them that have said trash things about certain species before,” Grantaire replied, even more shocked that he was having to bolster the self-esteem of one of the most attractive people he’d ever encountered.

****

Enjolras laughed at the image. “He’d probably round up an angry mob made up of entirely that species and send them in to slaughter the guy. Then he’d throw a party for them afterward.”

****

“If you’re gonna kill a man, you might as well do it in style,” Grantaire quipped.

****

Wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, Enjolras gestured to the door.

****

“Well, I’d best be going. I’ve got only 2 days to plan out all of the details for this next raid. Speaking of which, would you like to join the landing party? I looked you up to make sure you were trustworthy, and in doing so noticed that you are a trained boxer. We could always use another capable fighter, if you’re willing,” He asked.

****

“Sure,” Grantaire replied, cheerful if not disbelieving. “I’m not certain why you’re deciding it’s a good idea to let someone you’ve only know for about a day come on a raid with you, but who am I to judge? I might be a little rusty, but I still remember most of the moves.”

****

“Excellent! I’ll let Combeferre know to factor you into his scheming. See you at some meal in the future, possibly?” Enjolras said, smiling.

****

“Probably. Unless I forget to eat for 3 days straight again. That’s unlikely to happen, seeing as the last time I passed out and ruined the painting I was working on at the time by smearing my face down it. But yeah, I will most likely see you at a meal at some point in the near future. See? Word vomit,” Grantaire rambled, inwardly cursing himself.

****

“It’s not as bad as you think it is, really. Bye then!” Enjolras said, and ducked out the door before he could extend the conversation again.

****

Grantaire slumped backwards on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was so fucked.

****

                                                                                               -------------------

****

Bahorel walked carefully back into Jehan’s bedroom, gently setting down the tray of tea on the bedside table. He gingerly sat down on the side of Jehan’s king size bed, which took up the majority of the room. It was covered in fairy lights and gauzy strands of fabric, with lilac sheets and a bright yellow comforter.

****

The lump buried under the covers stirred when Bahorel sat down on the side of the bed.

****

“‘Rel?” came a quiet voice, managing to tremble despite only saying one syllable.

****

“I brought tea if you want it, love,” Bahorel said gently. On good days, they were loud and boisterous, the only pet names being used ironically. On bad days, they were quiet and reserved, Bahorel reassuring Jehan of his love in every other sentence.

****

“Thanks,” Jehan said weakly, a pale hand emerging from the confines of the violently colored bedding. It found Bahorel’s hand and laid itself on top of it, trembling slightly with the effort of moving. “It’s okay to touch me today.”

****

As soon as he got the affirmation, Bahorel slipped carefully under the covers, pressing himself along Jehan’s back.

****

“I’m glad. The no-touching days are the worst. They’re practically torture _and_ they remind me of Arrested Development. Trying not to laugh whenever you remind me is the _worst_ , seriously,” Bahorel joked, trying to lighten the mood at least a little bit.

****

Jehan chuckled weakly. “Sorry I’m such a pain.”

****

“You’re not a pain, baby. I’m not just staying with you for your ravishing sense of fashion, you know,” Bahorel reassured xem.

****

Jehan didn’t respond, which meant that xe’d run out of energy for talking.

****

“Would you like some tea, or would you like to just lay here? Tap my hand once for tea, twice for laying here,” Bahorel asked.

****

There were two taps on his hand, so Bahorel settled down even further onto the bed.

****

“Love you,” he whispered into Jehan’s ear. A heart was drawn on the back of his hand in response, and he smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R and Enjo gon' frick


	4. Plans, Therapists, and Tired Revolutionaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan of attack is outlined, Éponine is not going to deal with this shit again, and Enjolras has literally no sense of self preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to finish. I had a buttload of homework and an honors choir, and a bunch of other things, but I finally managed to get it finished. Let me know if you see any typos! By the way, (prepare yourself for shameless self promoing) my tumblr url is partyfishinfrench, in case anyone feels like seeing ridiculous amounts of me crying about Grantaire.

“So here’s the plan,” Combeferre said, gesturing to the screen behind him. “As most of you know, in approximately two days we’re planning to raid a museum that has knowingly stolen precious artifacts and heirlooms from several cultures across the galaxy. This will be an extremely high-stealth mission, and will require all of your attention and memorization skills. Jehan, when xe recovers, will hack into the security cameras in the museum and disable all that are necessary. Xe can also delete video footage in case anyone accidentally goes into filmed territory. We will be entering the building at 0300 hours, so make sure you keep a really weird sleeping schedule from now on. Now then, Éponine, Gavroche, and Grantaire will be on the team that actually goes into the building. Grantaire, we’ll put you through some basic stealth training beforehand, in case you have two left feet, like _some people_.”

 

This was punctuated with a pointed look at Bossuet. Joly promptly burst into giggles, apparently _still_ not over that whole fiasco. Bossuet buried his face in his hands, cursing when he accidentally poked himself in the eye.

 

“Everyone else will stay on board the ship, unless something goes horribly wrong and we have to send in an extraction team. If worst comes to worst, then Bahorel, Musichetta, and Joly will be on the team we send down in a shuttle. I’ve sent blueprints of the museum to everyone who has any possibility of going on this mission, and I trust that you will all memorize them. Remember, the fate of the people rests in your hands,” Combeferre concluded, smiling encouragingly.

 

“Yeah, no pressure!” Éponine whispered to Grantaire, smirking. “Everyone’s gonna be miserable if we don’t pull off this mission, but it’ll be fine!”

 

Grantaire smiled back, albeit somewhat nervously, and chuckled weakly.

 

“I’m just hoping that I don’t get caught and killed. Then again, that would be the ultimate fuck you to my family. I know for a fact that they’re sponsors of that very museum, and me getting killed in a mission trying to take it down would probably make my father blow a gasket. If only for the bad reputation it would give the family Grantaire, at least. I’m not so sure about the caring about me dying part,” he replied, shrugging. “Don’t worry though, I’m not about to intentionally sabotage the mission just to die in a way that pisses off my parents. Dying at the hands of someone else is not exactly how I plan to go out.”

 

Éponine looked at him sharply.

 

“Make sure not to talk like that when Jehan’s around, yeah? Poor soul has enough impulses to deal with already. I’m going to schedule you weekly appointments with Musichetta. Do not,” she said, looking at him warningly when he tried to interject, “even think about arguing with me. I know I don’t know you very well, but my sister Azelma… Well, let’s just say that she was always saying things exactly like what you just said, and I never took her seriously. Now there’s the skeleton of a teenage girl sitting at the bottom of the ocean on an unnamed planet in the Omega sector. Gav’s never quite gotten over it, and neither have I. We’ve only just managed to reach a delicate state of mind where we’re not constantly grieving, so please, don’t do anything to send Gav relapsing back to where he was a year and a half ago.”

 

Grantaire looked stunned for a moment, then nodded quietly.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Thank god you’re not as argumentative with everyone else as you are with Enjolras. Okay bucko, we’re gonna go schedule you an appointment with ‘Chetta. She’s still standing right over there; come on.”

 

Éponine took Grantaire by the arm gingerly and led him over to where Musichetta was laughing hysterically at something Bossuet had just said.

 

“Hey Chetta, could Grantaire and I speak to you somewhere away from Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum for a moment?” Éponine asked, and Musichetta sobered up instantly.

 

“Of course. Joly, keep Bossuet from tripping over his own feet again on the way back to the common area, yeah?” Musichetta gently patted Bossuet on the face, then led Éponine and Grantaire to a somewhat more secluded corner.

 

“Okay, what’s up?” she asked, looking concerned.

 

Éponine got straight to the point.

 

“Grantaire needs a therapist. He’s never told me explicitly, obviously, seeing as we’ve only known each other for less than two days, but I know the signs. He’s about as fucked up as Azelma, and I don’t want to put Gavroche through that again.”

 

“That sounds reasonable. Grantaire, your feelings on the matter?” Musichetta asked, looking at him curiously.

 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I’m not worth hurting anyone else, so I’ll do anything I can to prevent that. I don’t want to be responsible for scarring a preteen boy more than he already is,” Grantaire said, smiling unconvincingly.

 

“Also reasonable. So, how do Thursdays and Sundays at three sound to you?” Musichetta proposed, getting out her tablet to mark down the dates in her calendar.

 

“It’s not like I have anything better to do then,” Grantaire shrugged. “You might have to set up some kind of reminder for me though; I’m notoriously bad at remembering things.”

 

“Already done,” Musichetta replied, smiling warmly. “The sound system in your room is now programmed to remind you an hour before your appointment on each of those days.”

 

“Thanks. Could you not tell anyone about these appointments? I’m pretty sure that no one has the best opinion of me in the first place; I don’t want to make it worse by letting them know that I have quite possibly the most fucked up brain in the entire known universe,” Grantaire asked, looking at her pleadingly.

 

“Absolutely. Doctor-patient confidentiality is essential. Anything you don’t want me to tell anyone, I won’t tell anyone,” Musichetta reassured him.

 

“Okay, good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to my room and drink myself stupid,” Grantaire said, doing a two finger salute at Éponine before walking out the door.

 

Musichetta sighed.

 

“That one’s going to take a lot of work; I can already tell.”

 

“I wouldn’t have recommended him to you if I didn’t think he would. I just… can’t stand to see someone feel that way after Azelma. I can’t help but to think that if I had done something… Anything… I could have,” Éponine stopped, blinking back tears.

 

“Hey, it’s okay. You couldn’t have done anything. She didn’t want you to see, and as a result, you didn’t. He won’t end up like she did; I promise. She didn’t have the help that he does,” Musichetta comforted, pulling Éponine into a hug. “He’s going to be fine, you’re going to be fine, and Gavroche is going to be fine.”

 

“I hope so,” Éponine replied, taking a shaky breath. “I hope so.”

 

                                                                                  ____________________________________

 

“Enjolras, I brought you a sandwich,” Combeferre called into the dark room, squinting at the figure on the bed hunched over a laptop.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, ‘Ferre, I just ate two hours ago,” Enjolras scoffed, furiously backspacing.

 

“Two hours ago, as in twelve hours ago?” Combeferre asked, looking incredulous.

 

“Twelve hours? But it’s only-”

 

“9:00. AM. You’ve been working for twelve hours straight with no breaks. Shut the laptop, come out and eat. You’ve going to die from overworking yourself or starvation if you keep going at this rate,” Combeferre said firmly.

 

“But-”

 

“The only butt in here is you, Enjolras. And you’re making even more of an ass of yourself with every protestation you make. So please, for the love of all that is holy, stop working and eat.” Combeferre’s disapproving stare intensified.

 

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Enjolras assented, pouting while saving and shutting his laptop.

 

He stood up, swaying to the side almost instantly. Combeferre rushed to his side. Once Enjolras stopped blacking out, Combeferre looked at him pointedly.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I get the point already,” Enjolras grumbled, still leaning heavily on Combeferre.

 

They shuffled awkwardly out to the commonspace, garnering an alarmed look from a heavily hungover Grantaire when they finally reached the kitchen.

 

“You doin’ okay there, Enjo?”

 

“He’s fine, just sleep and nutrient deprived,” Combeferre responded for him, lifting Enjolras gently into one of the barstools. “Here.”

 

Enjolras gingerly took a bite of the sandwich, then tore into it ravenously. Grantaire hid laughter behind his hand, hardly believing that this was the man he’d described as a god only a few days previous. Combeferre slid a glass of water towards him, and Enjolras gulped it down gratefully. He looked shocked by the feeling of not being starving and thirsty.

 

“And this is why you should listen to me when I say you should eat,” Combeferre said, doing a finger gun at Enjolras as he worked out of the room.

 

“That man is an enigma,” Grantaire said, staring after him with a look of amazement in his eyes.

 

“That’s one word for it,” Enjolras responded, filling his water glass back up.

 

Grantaire made a weird face, shrugged, and turned back to his sketchbook.

 

“What’re you drawing?” Enjolras asked, leaning over to get a better look.

 

Grantaire choked and hurried to flip to a page with a less incriminating drawing on it. He had been working quickly to immortalize the image of Enjolras practically stuffing the sandwich into his face, but the picture that Enjolras saw was one of Jehan, xyr hair braided in a fishtail with a single begonia tucked into it.

 

“Wow, you’re really good,” Enjolras said, looking impressed.

 

“Thanks…,” Grantaire replied, blushing furiously. “Um, I’ve got to go? Paint a thing… In my room?”

 

“Can I see it when you’re done?” Enjolras asked, looking eager.

 

“Sure…?” Grantaire responded, looking completely confused. He quickly slid out of his chair, waving awkwardly to Enjolras. He ran into Courfeyrac in the hall, who was snickering; clearly having witnessed the entire encounter. “Dude, what the fuck just happened?”

 

“Sleep deprivation makes him… friendlier than usual,” Courfeyrac explained in between giggles. “Have fun painting a thing!”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire grumbled, clearly not pleased with Courfeyrac’s amusement at his misfortune.

 

Grantaire practically sprinted back to his room, sighing in relief as the doors slid shut behind him. Putting his face in his hands he sank to the floor. _Why_ did disarmingly attractive people have to be uncharacteristically friendly when tired? _Why_ did Grantaire have to be kidnapped by the most friendly space pirates ever? And _why_ , why why _why_ , did Grantaire always fall for the worst people possible? These were all questions that Grantaire would have greatly appreciated being answered by an ethereal booming voice emanating from the ceiling, but alas, there was no such luck.

  
Grunting, he heaved himself off of the floor, deciding to actually paint a thing. Incredible. Now for the difficult part: deciding on a painting subject that wasn’t Enjolras. After racking his brains for at least half an hour, he had an epiphany. _Perfect_.


End file.
